The Convict
by Leliha
Summary: The story takes place after the final defeat and destruction of Voldemort. Convicted criminals do not have to spend time in Azkaban, but are rented out as cheap workers. This is the story of one of them. SSOC
1. Chapter 1

_The story takes place after the fnal defeat and destruction of Voldemort. Convicted criminals do not have to spend time in Azkaban, but are rented out as cheap workers. This is the story of one of them._

**Chapter One**

The Ministry had sent a note that they could supply a suitable convict by 4 o'clock on Tuesday afternoon. So at that time the family and the house elves were assembled in the hall, waiting for the arrival of the delegation from the Ministry. It was the first time they had ordered a convict and therefore everybody was nervous.

Four years ago the Ministry had come up with this novel idea of punishment. Azkaban had been partly damaged during Voldemorts's rise and the ensuing war and could not house all the prisoners. So they had developed a project based on the Muggle methods of centuries past. But instead of shipping prisoners off to far away colonies, they rented them to trustworthy wizard families as cheap servants – or slaves, as people not in favour of this practice preferred to call them. The Ministry's convict department had designed some clever devices for keeping the prisoners docile and for preventing escape. These security appliances were provided by the Ministry, as well as healthcare and clothes for the convicts, while the 'owners' were responsible for the prisoners' keep and in addition had to pay a small fee to the Ministry. The project was a huge success for both sides: The Ministry's pecuniary advantages were considerable and the wizarding society profited from the cheap labour; more and more wizards applied for a convict, demand was much higher than the number of eligible prisoners, because only the mentally and physically healthy could be rented out.

When the doorbell finally rang and four men were admitted into the hall, all eyes were focused on the prisoner, easily detectable in his Muggle style blue denim uniform with a large number printed on the back of his jacket. His hands were bound before him by means of two wristbands, one red, the other one blue. He was not a very prepossessing sight, tall and thin, with a pale, lined, haggard face and very short pepper-and-salt hair; he looked as if witnessing too many horrors had made him age prematurely. He did not look at anybody, but kept his gaze on the floor. Two Aurors held him by his upper arms. At a signal from the Ministry official they let him go. The official pointed his wand at the prisoner's wrists and the bands separated, his hands falling to his side. He showed no reaction.

The official stepped forward.

"Mr Trelawney, my name is John Green from the convict department. I bring you convict 701 to be kept as your servant. Please, touch his red wristband with your wand and confirm your claim on him."

Rather self-consciously Mr Trelawnwy stepped forward and complied. The prisoner still did not look up. The official consulted his notes.

"He must work at least 10 hours a day, six days a week. In your application you wrote that you needed him for work in the grounds and in the stables, where do you want him to sleep?"

Mr Trelwaney hesitated. "Well, I don't know if it is adequate, but we've put a cot in a corner of the stables, there's also a small bathroom there…"

"Excellent, so he does not have to enter the house?"

"He has to get food from the kitchen, I presume."

"It can be left outside the kitchen door, there is no need for him to enter the house, that means he won't be allowed to enter it, we can make that clear. Please, touch the red band again."

Mr Trelwaney did so.

"You see,´" the official went on in a confidential stage whisper, "he's not an easy one, two owners already wanted to get rid of him. He is described as defiant and stubborn, intimidating even, with an inclination to violence, so if you can keep him separated from the rest of your household, all the better."

He took hold of the prisoner's left arm and pushed the sleeve up. Trelawney and his household gasped. The Dark Mark! A former Death Eater! The official smiled, enjoying the effect he had created; the convict remained impassive.

"Now, don't worry. These wristbands assure that he is harmless. This one," he pointed at the red band, "now binds him to you and confines him to your estate, to your grounds and stables. It also makes sure that he follows your orders and that of your family. If he leaves the boundaries of your estate, if he enters the house, he will feel pain not unlike the Cruciatus. If he doesn't obey your commands, again there will be pain. In his case, as he has a history of disobedience, the level of pain is quite high."

With feelings of morbid fascination everyone watched the man with the wristbands. His drawn face looked as if he had already been subjected to a liberal amount of pain.

"The blue band limits his ability to do magic to some basic spells. He is allowed a wand, but a very inferior one, especially designed for convict issue; he can do harmless cleaning, lightning, summoning and levitation spells, but any curses, hexes or dark magic are out of the question. The bands are connected to his heartbeat, if he tries to take them off he'll die. Oh, and if you join the two wristbands and touch them with your wand, they become handcuffs, in case you want to restrain him. Any kind of punishment is allowed if he should prove renitent despite the bands."

Green now nodded to the Aurors and one of them grabbed the prisoners shoulders and turned him round so that everybody could see the number on his back.

"He is to be addressed by this number. It is printed on his jacket and shirts and also tattooed on his chest."

Another nod and the Auror again swivelled the man round and pulled up his T-shirt to display the tattoo clearly visible on the pale skin. If the prisoner felt shame at this treatment he did not show it, neither did he resist nor did his pale face reveil any emotions. Mr Trelawney opened his mouth to protest. You couldn't treat a human being like this! But then he stopped himself. After all, this was a Death Eater who probably had tortured, murdered and raped. He deserved punishment.

So instead he asked, "What about his real name?"

"There's no necessity for you to know that," Green answered, "and the convict has forfeited his right to bear it, he doesn't belong to our society any longer. Just call him by his number. He always has to address you as 'master'. Any other questions?"

Mr Trelawney shook his head, still digesting the information he had just received. "Forfeited the right to bear his name" – how cruel an idea. They treated the convicts like cattle, no worse – even cows usually had names!

"Right," the official continued, unaware of Mr Trelawney's disgust, "I'm going to give you a brochure with the most important rules of convict use, then you must sign this form, please, and we can be off."

He handed Mr Trelawney a role of parchment and a quill for signing and nodded to the Aurors, who deposited a tattered canvas bag at the convict's feet.

"His belongings," Green said, collecting the parchment. With a brief look at Mr Trelawney's signature he folded the sheet and put it into his briefcase.

"A commission from the Ministry is going to visit you every three months to inquire about his conduct and to provide new clothes if necessary. They will also examine him for his health and give him the regulation haircut. If there are any problems, contact the ministry immediately. Good-bye."

With another nod he was gone, the Aurors following in his wake.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Mr Trelawney looked at the prisoner.

"Welcome," he said and frowned. The man's lips were pressed together, tiny beads of perspiration were showing on his face, he had his arms crossed and pressed to his body. "What's the matter?" Mr Trelawney asked.

For the first time the convict looked up and met his owner's eyes.

"Pain. I - can't - stay in the house," 701 said with clenched teeth.

"Oh!" Mr Trelawney was taken aback. So it really worked. "Sorry. Let's go to the stables then. Follow me, please."

He led the way and the convict picked up his bag and stumbled after him.

The other household members sighed with relief about his departure.

"What an awful man!" Laura Trelwaney, the youngest daughter, exclaimed disgustedly.

"Have you seen his face? Such a large, crooked nose – Merlin, how ugly."

"What a poor man!" her sister Fiona retorted. "he looks as if he had not eaten a proper meal for years!"

Fiona snorted. "He's a criminal, a Death Eater, he doesn't deserve any better!" She allowed herself a theatrical shudder. "I don't want him to look after our horses. Dad has to make that clear. And I don't want him to be around when we look after them. He scares me so."

Laura agreed. After all, he bore the Dark Mark.

Outside Mr Trelawney walked 701 to the stables, explaining some of the gardening duties to him on the way. The man did not say anything, he just nodded, his black eyes unfathomable. In the stables there were two horses in their boxes and behind a wooden partition in the corner there was a cot with an old army sleeping bag and two blankets, several hooks on the wall and a shelf.

"Your place," Mr Trelawney said. 701 looked at him, his eyes revealing some emotion for the first time. "Yes, thank you." He winced slightly "The bathroom is over there," Mr Trelawney went on, pointing at a door in the opposite wall. "Is there anything you need?" he asked.

701 shook his head. "No." He winced again.

"Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?" The convict looked as if he had a negative response on the tip of his tongue, but then thought better of it. "Yes, thank you." And winced.

"I'll tell the house-elves to make you something and put it outside the kitchen door for you to fetch."

"Thank you." This time he nearly doubled over with pain. Mr Trelawney watched him suspiciously. What was the matter with him now?

"Tomorrow you can muck out the stables and then start with the lawns."

"Yes – master," the convict ground out and closed his eyes with relief when the pain stopped.

Now Mr Trelawney understood. He smiled sadly, nodded at the convict and left, marvelling at the Ministry's unexpected efficiency in tormenting prisoners.

The convict unpacked his few possessions and lay down on the cot. He sighed and closed his eyes. He had a splitting headache and was tired. Tired of his life, tired of the constant humiliation. A new owner – he had not believed they would find one for him, not after all that had happened. He had hoped to be allowed to finish his miserable life in Azkaban, alone in a cell, far away from the normal world and the company of normal, happy people. He had not believed them when they had taken him from his cell and told him they had found a new owner, that he would be going to Cornwall, had thought it was one of their cruel jokes. Then he had been apprehensive, afraid even, of what would await him at the Trelawneys. The name evoked memories – but that had been long ago and there seemed to be no connection.

Now he thought that in a way he was lucky; things could have turned out worse, much worse.

He had been addressed politely, he had been given something like a room of his own, with a real bed and a bathroom. His former owner, proprietor of a repair service for broomsticks and a widower since he had lost his wife in a Death Eater attack during the war, had been out for revenge, making the convict work harder and longer than required by the rules and locking him in a kind of cage in the workshop every night with his hands bound and nothing but the bare concrete floor to sleep on. Instead of a bathroom there had been a bucket and a bowl of water. Food had meant half-rotten leftovers salvaged from the dustbin. Former Death Eaters didn't deserve anything better. He had become ill and too weak to do his work properly, as a result he had suffered constant pain from the wristbands and had been subjected to Cruciatus-curses and beatings by his furious master on a regular basis. One day the convict had been unable to take it anymore and had gathered all his strength to fight back. He had stood no chance, of course. When the Ministry officials came to collect him he was half-dead from a prolonged Cruciatus and in so bad a condition that he had to spend several days in the High Security Wing of St Mungo's before being returned to Azkaban. He still suffered from the aftermaths, a slight continuous tremor in his hands.

The new owner seemed different. He appeared to be head of an honourable old wizarding family and didn't convey the impression of wishing to add to the convict's punishment, would gladly leave him alone if he obeyed his orders; and as for living on a picturesque country estate in Cornwall – the situation could definitely have turned out worse.

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for the inspiring characters_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you for all the positive reviews. Something is wrong with my e-mail programme therefore I can't answer you individually at the moment. So here is the first update, I had it already written, that's why it's so quick. The next ones certainly will take longer, I guess I can manage to update once a week._

_Leliha_

**Chapter Two**

During the following weeks the Trelawneys settled into a routine with their convict. He was quiet and docile, did his work well and shunned all contact with the rest of the household. He collected his food from the kitchen door to eat in solitude either outside or in his quarters, when the two girls came into the stables he left without saying a word. He obviously was not interested in his owners' lives, although he could not help overhearing scraps of conversation that formed into a picture: The two girls went to Hogwarts, they were only home for the summer. Mrs Trelawney was an invalid who could not leave her room and required constant care, which was provided by a resident nurse and a healer who came every other day. The Trelawneys had not taken sides in the time of Voldemort, their neutrality had kept them out of trouble. Mr Trelawney was a kind-hearted and hard-working wizard, who managed his estate successfully; he was not interested in politics or Dark Magic and he had excellent connections with his Muggle neighbours. For him the convict law was a means of acquiring a cheap worker, nothing else. He felt no urge to take the law into his hands by humiliating or tormenting the prisoner any further, like so many other owners did. Treating him politely and making sure that the man had everything he needed the Trelawneys in return got good work from the convict, who also proved to have a talent for growing rare herbs and using them for brewing simple, but very efficient healing potions which soon became the favourite remedies for all kinds of minor ailments occuring in the Trelawney household. Mr Trelawney often tried to speak to the man, wanted to learn something about him, but only received monosyllabic answers followed by a reluctant 'master'. The convict clearly preferred to be left alone.

A year later the regular circles of life at the Trelawney estate were disturbed when Mrs Trelawney's trusted old healer retired and a new one arrived: A witch who preferred the more personal relationship of a country practice to a career at St Mungo's. Her name was Miranda Weaver, she was a slender woman with an abundance of red curls and freckles. Quite the opposite of the stout white-haired wizard Mrs Trelawney was accustomed to.

Madam Weaver's first visit took place on a hot and sunny morning late in August. She arrived early and found herself strongly objected to by her patient. Mrs Trelawney kept asking for the old healer, did not want to be touched by the woman. It took three hours, all the patience and professional skills Miranda Weaver could muster, before Mrs Trelawney had overcome her resentments. So it was already past noon when Miranda left. She was exhausted, had a headache and her robe clung to her back with sweat. Slowly she went down the drive to the point where she would be able to apparate. Her stomach rumbled and her mouth was parched, however, there would be no time for lunch today, she was already late for her next patient. Enviously she looked at the man who was sitting comfortably in the shadow of an old chestnut tree, his back to the trunk, eating an apple. When she came closer, she suddenly stopped in her tracks, staring. He only wore blue trousers, his upper body was naked. He was sinewy and lean, lightly tanned and on his chest there was a number. A convict! Next to him on the ground were more apples, garden shears and gloves. She noticed that the hedge was partly trimmed. A convict, deprived of his magic so that he had to use Muggle methods!

"Well? What is it?" The man had noticed her stare, his voice was harsh. She blushed. How impolite of her to stare at him as if he was an exotic animal at the zoo.

She did not know how to get out of the situation.

"You are a convict."

"Obviously," he retorted, his voice full of sarcasm.

Right, that had been a silly thing to say she thought.

"I'm Healer Weaver," she said hesitantly.

The man responded with a scowl and a snort. He seemed vaguely familiar, had his picture been in the newspaper? It was common knowledge that there were quite a number of famous former Death Eaters among the convicts. The healer didn't know how to go on. The man definitely wasn't interested in conversation. They looked at each other. Suddenly he uttered a short, harsh laugh.

"You don't have to go hungry. Would you like an apple?"

It was a pure automatism that made Miranda's hand catch the apple he tossed at her. She stared at him open-mouthed. How could he know that she was hungry? Surely the noises her stomach was making weren't that loud! And it couldn't be Legillimency, from what she had heard convicts were not able to perform such complex magic.

He gathered the gloves and the shears and got up. Miranda still stood rooted to the spot, holding the untouched apple in her hand. She couldn't get rid of the feeling that she knew this man! Both his features and his manner were familiar. But she couldn't put a name to him. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Convict 701," he answered, throwing his apple core into the hedge cuttings.

"I can see that. I mean what's your real name?"

"I'm convict 701 and you can eat that apple. I haven't poisoned it."

There was an expression of grim amusement on his face.

Obediently Miranda took a bite from the fruit.

"We have met before, haven't we?" she asked, swallowing a mouthful of apple.

The convict avoided her eyes, he just grimaced and shrugged.

"You'd better go now. Contact between convicts and strangers is not encouraged."

Merlin, she knew him! But from where and when? The memory eluded her.

"Who are you?" she insisted.

"I told you to leave me alone."

His voice was cold and angry now. He put on the gloves and worked the shears violently. Miranda hesitated, wanted to ask him again, but his brusque manner clearly told her that he would not be willing to give her an answer. So she finally shrugged in defeat and left. When she reached her apparition point, she looked back. He had stopped working, was standing with his back to the hedge, staring after her.

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for the inspiring characters._


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you for all the reviews, your criticism is very much appreciated. This is a short chapter, a kind of calm before the storm of the plot will develop any further._

**Chapter Three**

On the rare occasions when the Trelawneys had guests staying for the weekend, Miranda Weaver also received invitations for the dinner parties on Saturday night.

One evening in late October quite an illustrious number of wizards, including Rufus Scrimgeour, the Minister of Magic, had assembled around the dinner table. Next to Miranda there were Brutus Brown, the local representative of Gringott's and Marius Moore, one of Mr Trelawney's neighbours. The house-elves had done an excellent job with the cooking, the wine was good and after the main course the atmosphere at the dinner table was pleasant and relaxed, with an animated conversation going on and much laughter. Miranda was listening to Marius Moore's humorous, but longwinded tale about some strange magic in one of the old tin mines, when she heard Minister Scrimgeour ask his host about the convict.

"I've heard you employ one of them. Are you satisfied with our programme?"

Everybody fell silent. Convicts were a darkly fascinating topic.

"Oh yes, absolutely, he does his work well, we've never had any problems with him so far."

Scrimgeour nodded. "At the beginning of the project we had quite a number of complaints about disobedience, convicts lacking respect for their masters. But then young Harry Potter devised this idea of inflicting pain via the wristbands and now it seems to work. Simple, but brilliant, makes the toughest of them tame. The more difficulties they make, the stronger the pain becomes, even for minor offences. It works, it really does."

He was beaming around the table, the other guests nodded their agreement.

"Don't you think this treatment is inhuman?" Miranda couldn't help asking, disgusted by his pleasure in the misery of other humans. Her encounter with the convict had awakened her interest in the matter, she had gathered information about the convict programme and the more details she had learned, the less she agreed with the project.

"Inhuman? My dear Madam Weaver, it certainly is more human than a damp cell in Azkaban."

"I don't know. They are surrounded by free people, but themselves they are virtual slaves. The humiliation must be endless."

Scrimgeour laughed. "They are criminals, my dear, many of them are former Death Eaters. They deserve punishment."

The other guests murmured their approval, but Miranda thought of the man at the hedge and couldn't stop.

"Not all the owners treat them as fairly as Mr Trelawney does. Often they are abused and tortured."

For a moment Scrimgeuor looked uncomfortable, but then he said, "That was before the wristbands. People had to make sure that the convicts obeyed. They used shackles and whips and the occasional _Cruciatus_ – absolutely legal in these cases by the way – but nowadays the conditions are much more refined."

"But to rob them of their identities!"

"It's part of the punishment and it makes things easier for the owners. Personal feelings are less likely to arise if you call someone by a neutral number instead of by his given name. Believe me, my dear Madam Weaver, much better."

Again the other guests nodded. And with this the minister deliberately ignored Miranda's obvious urge to say more on the subject and turned to his host again. Miranda bit her lip angrily. She felt the curious gazes of the other guests. Obviously nobody had any sympathy for the convicts, but she could not help feeling that treating human beings as slaves was not right.

Marius Moore resumed his narration, but Miranda didn't listen any more. This short discussion about convicts had led her thoughts to a path that had become familiar during the last weeks: Convict 701. The fact that she couldn't remember who he was haunted her, nagged at her thoughts constantly. But the harder she tried to come up with a name for the man, the more frustrated she became. She was totally unable to put his face into context.

_Thanks to J.K.Rowlng for the inspiring characters_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four 

Mirnada did not see 701 again during her next visits to Mrs Trelawney. Step by step she had managed to create a relationship of trust and confidence; she felt sympathy for the woman bearing her illness so bravely. Mrs Trelawney in turn had developed an affection for the healer and did her best to cooperate. Both of them knew that with all her therapies Miranda could achieve nothing but a lessening of the pain and a prolonging of Mrs Trelawney's life for a couple of months or a year, perhaps two. It was hard to accept that in some cases even magic was bound to fail. Although Miranda had experienced this over and over again during her career as a healer, she still couldn't help feeling angry and frustrated with the unfairness of fate and with the limits of human medicine – magical and Muggle alike.

One day there were two new vials on Mrs Trelawney's potions tray. Miranda picked them up and examined them curiously. She uncorked them and sniffed. Strange, they certainly weren't her prescriptions.

"I had such a headache last night," explained Mrs Trelawney's voice from the bed, "none of my potions helped. I didn't want to call you, so finally my husband went out to consult the apothecary. He met our convict in the grounds and – you won't believe it – the man helped him out with potions he had brewed himself with herbs from our garden. They are marvellous, I've never had any as effective as these."

Miranda looked at the potion vials again and frowned. The convict, potions? Somewhere deep inside her consciousness something stirred, told her that this combination should mean something to her. But once again the solution eluded her. With a sigh of frustration she shoved the problem away. Her patient needed her undivided attention now. She encouraged Mrs Trelawney to take the convict's potions if they were helpful. Why not? Anything that could ease the pain was positive.

On her way home, however, she wondered about 701 again. Who, by Merlin's beard, was he? She had tentatively tried to question Mr Trelawney about his convict, only to find out that he also knew next to nothing about the man, except that he was a former Death Eater and had a reputation for disobedience, which Mr Trelawney could not say was true.

On a wet day at the end of December he stopped her when she left his wife's bedroom.

His face was anxious and Miranda, anticipating questions about her patient's health, hastily searched for some phrases to describe the hopeless situation in more positive a light. But to her surprise his request was a totally different one.

"Would you mind having a look at 701?" he asked, "he must be seriously ill. My daughter told me that he is in a very bad state."

He scratched his head.

"I'm not sure about health care for convicts, according to the rules the Ministry's responsible, but I think this is urgent and he should get all the help he needs as soon as possible."

Miranda nodded vigorously. "Absolutely. Where is he?"

Mr Trelawney led her to the stables. It was cold inside. They went to the corner where the convict lived. He was lying on his cot, half-dressed, half covered with a blanket, shivering with cold. He also seemed to be in severe pain. His body was rigid and his breathing shallow. Obviously he had tried to get up, but had collapsed in the attempt. Miranda crouched next to the cot and touched his cheek. "Hello, Mr 701," she said.

His eyes remained closed.

"He's got a fever," she stated, "how long has he been like this?"

Trelawney shook his head. "I'm not sure. He is supposed to leave the stables as soon as my daughters come in, but Fiona told me that this morning he wasn't able to do so."

Miranda looked at the shivering man.

"701?" she said softly. "701? I'm Healer Weaver and I'd like to examine you."

He groaned and opened his eyes. "Go away," he whispered.

"Oh, well - I don't think so," she answered and ignored his attempt of a withering look.

"701, I'm going to take the covers away and have a closer look at you. You need help."

She started pulling back the blankets.

"No!" he croaked and grabbed the material.

"Oh yes," she said and losened his fingers. Swiftly she pulled the covers away. He had managed to pull on the left leg of his trousers, his right leg was bare except for the sock on his foot, and on his thigh there was a bloody makeshift bandage. Miranda's eyes fell on the wristbands and she remembered their function.

"Can you undo the command to work and leave the stables?" she asked Mr Trelawny, who nodded, stepped forward and pointed his wand at the red band. Immediately the convict reacted, his body relaxed. The healer pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and turned her attention to the bandage. Removing it gingerly she revealed an ugly-looking gash. It was festering, there was a foul smell and red lines had formed above it. Mr Trelawney made a retching noise and hastily left the cubicle.

"What happened?" Miranda asked.

"I - slipped with the axe," the convict answered reluctantly.

"When?"

"Last week."

"Why didn't you tell anybody?"

"I - tried to heal it myself," he admitted miserably.

"With your limited magic and your pathetic wand? You are a fool. You could have died."

He snorted.

She took everything she would need from her bag, reached for her wand and held it over the wound. Pus started to run from it and he groaned with pain.

"Sorry, but I have to do this," she said, "it won't take long."

She gave his arm an encouraging squeeze with her free hand. When all the pus had emerged, a flick of her wand removed the mess. Then she applied some salve and bandaged the leg.

"I can't heal it completely until I'm sure the wound is clean. The salve will help. I'll also give you a potion against the fever. Here."

She took a small vial from her bag, uncorked it and held it up for him to see.

"Can you sit?" She put her arm under his shoulders and helped him. Then she pushed the vial into his hand.

"Drink this. It's not pleasant, but it helps."

He put it to his lips, swallowed and grimaced.

"Too bitter, you mustn't cut the willow bark before boiling it," he spat.

_Click._ Something fell in place in Miranda's brain. She gasped and stared at the man who was leaning against her arm. Severus, Severus Snape, of course, how could she not have recognized him earlier!

The hair was different, of course, and with his lined face he could have passed as ten years older than he really was. Severus, who had been at school with her, two years her senior, but well-known to all the pupils as Snivellus, the loner, the awkward, ugly, greasy-haired book-worm with the passionate interest in Potions and in the Dark Arts; she had felt sorry for him then, but, like so many others, she had not dared to speak up on his behalf or oppose the bullies. Later he became Snape, the Death Eater, the notorious murderer…

"What?" she woke from her memories, realizing that he had said something.

"I tried to brew a potion against the fever, but – my magic is not strong enough."

Miranda winced at the look of defeat and hopelessness in his eyes.

"Your headache potion is excellent," she said with an encouraging smile.

He snorted. "A child could make it."

"It's better than the common prescriptions, you could make a fortune with it."

"No, I can't. Madam Weaver, in case you have forgotten - I'm a convict!"

There was so much bitterness in his voice, it made her shiver.

He was right. There was nothing she could say to that. What a waste, he had been brilliant at potions, he could have made a successful career as a potions expert at St Mungo's or with one of the large pharmaceutical firms…

"Sorry, what?" Again she had not been listening.

"I need the bathroom," he said, avoiding her gaze, "it's over there."

She assisted him with the trousers and helped him up, putting his arm around her shoulders. Slowly they shuffled across the room. "Can you manage alone in there?" she asked when they reached the door.

He shot her a withering look and limped inside, closing the door with a bang. Miranda waited for him to come out, helped him to his cot and re-arranged the covers.

"You shouldn't be here, it's too cold," she said, closing her bag.

"I have no choice," he replied simply. His voice was drowsy, the potion was acting as a sleeping-draught as well. She sighed and got up. There was a jar on the shelf above the bed. She took it down, went into the bathroom and filled it with water. Then she went back and put it on the floor next to the cot.

"You must drink and I'll tell them to bring you some food."

He grunted sleepily. She smiled, lifted her wand and cast a warming charm on him.

"I'll be back the day after tomorrow," she said softly, bending down and lightly touching his shoulder. He was already asleep, making soft snoring noises.

"Good-bye – Severus", she whispered.

He winced slightly, but didn't wake up.

Mr Trelawney was waiting outside, still somewhat greenish in the face. She asked for a house-elf to be sent with food and to see if 701 needed anything.

"With this leg he will not be able to work for at least a week," she said firmly, "can you make that clear to his wristband?"

Trelawney nodded. "I think there was something in the rules about it."

"Good, thank you. I'll see him again in two days' time."

Again Mr Trelawney nodded. "Just put it on my wife's bill."

Miranda grimaced. "I don't worry about my fee. This man needs help."

She left, still not quite able to believe what she had just found out. Severus Snape…

It was a summer's day in her fifth year, when both of them had received owls telling them about the deaths of their mothers. Hers had died of cancer and his after long years of abuse by his father – at least that was what the whole school was talking about. She had run from the curiosity and pity of her fellow students to her favourite spot under the large willow by the lake only to find it occupied by a red-eyed, disconsolate young man - Severus.

It was the first time she had met him face to face with no one around to bully him. At first they had just glared at one another, not knowing what to do or say. How could he dare occupy her favourite place! Then, unable to hold back her tears, she had explained to him about her grief and reluctantly he had told her about his. Somehow she had put a consoling hand on his arm during his story and instead of shaking her off he had wrapped his arms around her and they had been crying and comforting each other in turns. Late in the evening they had returned to their houses and the next day they had been extremely embarrassed about this intimacy, they had never spoken about it and avoided each other. He had finished school that summer and Miranda had never seen him again. After Voldemort's downfall he had been arrested, together with many other Death Eaters, and there had been articles in the _Daily Prophet_, of course, describing their alleged crimes in detail, emphasizing Snape's treason. She had discussed these articles with the other staff at the hospital, trying to connect the allegations with the gangly boy she had known at school. As far as she remembered, there had always been some doubt about the reasons for his involvement with the Death Eaters. There even were rumours that he had acted as a double agent for Dumbledore. Although no evidence had ever been found, the doubt had been enough to spare him a death sentence. So this was what he had come to. He had been brilliant as a student, respected as a potions expert, he had been a powerful wizard, only to end his life in bondage, as a slave, deprived of his magic, nothing more to occupy his mind than the mowing of lawns and the clipping of hedges. What a waste!

Severus Snape woke at dawn. He felt better. There was still some pain from the wound in his thigh, but the continuous throbbing the wristband had wanted to punish him with for neglecting his work was gone. The fever was down, too. He realized that he was thirsty. Had there not been someone mentioning food and drink? Slowly and carefully he turned and raised his head. Indeed, there were a jug and a tray with a covered bowl and some bread on the floor. He reached for the jug and drank greedily until it was empty. Then he lay back and suddenly he remembered. Miranda, yes, that was her name. Miranda Weaver. He had recognized her instantly that day at the hedge, her standing there and watching him had been like a blow in his stomach. She had not changed much, just from girl into woman, her curls and her freckles still were the same. He had never thought about her after leaving Hogwarts, but now it all came back with a vengeance. That day under the willow tree, the two of them united by their grief. Shortly afterwards he had become a Death Eater…

His throat constricted painfully. How strange to meet her now, after so long a time. Had she recognized him? Hopefully not, she would most probably despise him for the crimes he had committed or, even worse, pity him for the state he was in, and he didn't want pity, it would only add to his humiliation…

Like so often before he forced himself to forget about the past, to humbly accept his present situation. Sentimental memories, speculations of what could have been only resulted in misery and self-loathing.

Carefully he hoisted himself into a sitting position, picked up the bowl from the tray and removed the lid. Soup. Cold. He searched for his wand and warmed it, the smell making him ravenous. Greedily he ate the soup and tore at the bread. Eating, working, sleeping, he still had a life. And it could be worse, much worse. He placed the empty bowl on the tray, lay down again, turned over and went back to sleep.

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for the inspiring characters_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Miranda returned the next day and found him awake, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. An empty breakfast tray was on the floor beside him. He turned his head and greeted her with a small smile of recognition.

"Good morning, how are you today?" Miranda asked, biting back the urge to address him by his name.

"Better," he said.

"Please, let me see," Miranda demanded and this time he removed the blankets himself, got out of his trousers and showed her his leg so that she could remove the bandages.

It really looked much better. Miranda took out her wand and held it over the wound.

"That's great! The infection is gone, it's clean. I can heal it."

Several complicated wand-movements later the edges of the gash had closed and only a thin pink scar was visible.

"You must be careful with this leg for another day or two, I told Mr Trelawney you won't be able to work, so you can rest. You are allowed to get up and walk around a bit, though, get your own food from the kitchen, for example."

He nodded, his face expressionless, and pulled his trousers back on. She straightened and picked up her bag. He was sitting with his back to the wall now, not looking at her, but studying some interesting spiders' nets in the far corner instead. She watched him thoughtfully, biting her lower lip. He certainly wasn't the talkative and socializing type. Should she really do it? How would he react? Quickly she glanced over her shoulder, making sure that no one was watching, then reached into her bag and bent down again, putting the magazine on his knees. Startled, he gave her a suspicious look and picked it up.

"Healing and potions," he read aloud. His eyes narrowed. "What's this?" he hissed.

"Something to read. I thought it could interest you," she said quietly, and after a pause added "Severus."

He got up violently and grabbed her arm, his face contorted into a mask of fury and fear.

"Since when have you known?" he demanded.

"When you complained about the potion."

"Miranda…" he stopped, shaking his head helplessly.

"Since when have you known?" she asked, nonplussed.

"When you spoke to me on your first day here."

He groaned.

"Do you want to punish me even more?"

She looked at him in shock.

"Excuse me?"

"I have very little magic left; this," he pointed to the magazine, "only reminds me of what I can't do any more. Besides, convicts are not allowed reading material."

Damn! Miranda silently berated herself for her thoughtlessness.

"I'm sorry, it was stupid of me," she said in a small voice.

He sighed again and eyed the magazine longingly. She smiled.

"Keep it. Tomorrow is Christmas. It's a present."

"I don't want your pity!" he said harshly.

"It's not pity. It's just that I know you and I, well, regret the waste. Your brilliant mind, your skills – and now this!" She made a sweeping gesture with her arm.

He uttered a short sarcastic laugh.

"Oh yes, I admit, a miserable existence, but, believe it or not, I find that I tend to cling to my life, regardless of how poor it is. I have learned to accept my situation. In these circumstances it's the only option if you want to stay sane. You turning up here, handing out potion magazines is all I needed."

He sat down on the bed again, glaring at her, his face hard.

"I'm so sorry, Severus."

He winced. "Stop it!"

"What?"

"Speaking my name. These wristbands give me a stab of pain whenever it is pronounced. You see, I'm not allowed to use it anymore."

His voice and his eyes were full of desperate anger. She stared at him in shock. It was generally known that the convicts' names were substituted by numbers, of course; however, she would never have thought that pronouncing the names would result in punishment. Oh, damn! She had wanted to give him some pleasure, only to achieve quite the opposite. Miserably and without thinking she sank down on the cot next to him, blinking back tears. Several minutes passed in silence. They were sitting side by side, not looking at each other. Suddenly she felt his hand on hers. It was rough and calloused, but surprisingly warm.

He cleared his throat and when he spoke his voice was still hoarse and the words came hesitantly.

"Your intentions are very much appreciated, Miranda, and if you insist on breaking convict rules – perhaps you could bring me a novel."

She looked up in surprise. "What?"

His mouth twitched. "A novel. A Muggle novel."

She stared at him. "But…"

"I used to read a lot, I miss it," he admitted quietly, his face a light shade of pink. "They leave me alone, people usually don't come to this corner of the stables. If we are very careful, nobody will find out."

Miranda still stared at him, too surprised to react in any way.

After a while he shrugged and looked away, his voice level now and cold and without emotion as he addressed the wall.

"Right, forget about it. I'm asking too much."

Miranda shook her head and touched his arm. "No, hold on, it was just so unexpected. I'll find a way."

Then a thought crossed her mind. "Will the wristbands let you read?"

He grimaced and laughed softly. "I don't think this particular ban is activated. It didn't occur to them that I would get into contact with anything printed out here in the stables."

"Good. So - a Muggle novel! Anything specific?"

He looked at her with a new glitter in his eyes and shook his head. "Anything you like."

She grinned and nodded.

"What about the magazine?"

He shrugged, however, she could sense the longing he felt.

She picked up her bag.

"Keep it," she said and left.

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for the inspiring characters_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Seven**

Miranda talked to Mr Trelawney the very same day. Praising the convict's skills in potion making she asked him if he would allow her to talk to 701 from time to time in order to learn from his expertise in herbal remedies. Mr Trelawney did not object and promised to speak to the convict. As a result they agreed on one evening each week after his working hours, when Miranda would meet him in his quarters so that he could show her his work.

Soon these hours became more than just the opportunity of exchanging books, they became something to look forward to for Miranda. It was amazing how Severus had created some very potent salves and potions with nothing but an old pewter pot and his herbs from the garden. However, it wasn't only his talent as a potions maker that attracted her to the convict,

she soon learned to admire the stoicism, patience, self-irony and dry humour with which he tried to make the best of his situation.

He in turn enjoyed her watching his work attentively and asking all the right questions. Having always preferred to live and work in solitude, he found sharing his knowledge with an expert healer stimulating, he surprised himself with the realization that he liked talking to somebody who took an interest in potions – that he liked talking to somebody at all. He would never admit how much pleasure he drew from these hours, though, would never admit it to her and would never admit it to himself. Instead he preferred to treat her with the more benevolent brand of his irony and sarcasm formerly reserved for the most competent among his students. Miranda didn't mind, she retaliated in the same tone and often forgot about his being a convict in their hours of professional companionship until a glimpse of the wristbands reminded her of the harsh reality.

One day curiosity had got the better of her and she had tried to bring up the topic of his role among the Death Eaters, of his trial and his sentence, only to meet with strong resistance on his part.

"I prefer not to discuss this," he said with determination.

"I just wondered why you…"

"I. Don't. Want. To. Talk. About. It. What good would it be? Would it change anything? Would it change my situation, would it change your attitude towards me?"

She looked at him thoughtfully. He was standing with his back to the small work table, his arms crossed before his chest defiantly, glaring at her with those unfathomable black eyes, his dirty, faded jeans and baggy sweatshirt underlining the thinness of his body. Suddenly she felt the urge of wrapping his arms around him and comforting him. She went over to him – no, this wouldn't do! – stopped herself and began studying the ingredients for the potion he was going to show her today.

"No, it wouldn't change anything," she answered quietly, rubbing some fresh thyme sprigs between her fingers.

He nodded grimly, uncrossed his arms and started explaining the herbs.

It was by pure chance that she had found a way to avoid addressing him by his number. On their first meeting she had accidentially said his name and seen him wince.

"I'm so sorry, Sev… 701," she apologized and stopped in surprise.

"Have you ever noticed?" she asked him.

"Noticed what?"

"The beginning is the same." She bit her lip thoughtfully. "Do you feel pain when I call you Sev?"

He stared at her, waited for a moment and then shook his head slowly.

"No, I don't. But, to be honest, I've never liked the short form."

"Wouldn't you prefer it to a number?"

He smiled and shrugged.

"Well, yes, I suppose, if you like it better…"

Oh, yes, she definitely liked it better. And so the use of the short form of his name became another secret to create a bond between them.

It was several weeks later when she inadvertently touched the hot make-shift cauldron and burned her hand. Severus' first reaction was a scalding reprimand for her clumsiness – and then he applied a healing salve. There was his hand holding hers, there were his fingers on her skin, gently dabbing on the cooling substance. Her mouth became dry, something was wrong with her breathing, she had to swallow hard and looked at him, their eyes met and she realized that he had similar sensations. After a moment he closed his eyes and turned his head away.

"This road doesn't lead us anywhere, Miranda, don't try to follow it," he said hoarsely and slowly put her hand back into her lap. Then he got up and stood with his back to her, his hands clenched into tight fists. She nodded sadly and sighed, once again admiring him for his self-control. He was right, he was a convict, would remain one for the rest of his life, there was nothing she could do about it. She had to be sensible and not risk their small opportunity of being together as friends by letting her emotions run havoc.

Miranda looked at her watch, got up and took a small parcel from her bag. "It's an American author this time. Herman Melville, Moby Dick. Have you heard of it?" She managed to keep her voice calm and neutral and went over, handing the parcel to Severus, who accepted it and pulled another one from its hiding place behind a loose brick in the wall above his cot. When he answered there was no trace of what they had just experienced in his voice either.

"Yes, of course I've heard of it. But what on earth did make you choose 'Ulysses'?" He lifted his parcel accusingly.

"I've read it to the end, I'm not a man to give up easily, but it was hard work indeed."

She grinned mischievously. "Well, it's a classic."

"A classic is a book which people praise and don't read. Mark Twain," he retorted with deadpan earnestness.

Miranda looked at him, surprised about his knowledge of Muggle quotations. They stared at each other for a moment, then they both burst out laughing.

"OK, Sev, no classic next time, I'll bring some light reading, what about a detective story?"

He raised an ironical eyebrow. "Yes, that would be very much appreciated."

Still chuckling she took 'Ulysses' and let it slip into her bag, while he filled a small jar with the insect repellent cream they had just made and gave it to her.

"At this time of the year it will come handy."

Her fingers brushed against his when she took the bottle and there it was again: A surge of emotion passing through her body. He noticed her reaction, smiled sadly and shook his head. Miranda swallowed and took a deep breath.

"Right, time for me to go, I suppose. Thank you for the potion. Bye, Sev."

"Bye, Miranda. Thank you, and – I'm sorry," he said quietly and started clearing away his potion utensils.

The healer left the stables, asking herself what on earth had made her react like this. She wasn't a teenager anymore, she should be able to keep her hormones at bay. Most of her 47 years of life had been dedicated to her career as a healer. She had always been proud of her independence, men had never played a large role in her life, none of them had caused any emotional upheaval. She had never been waiting for Mr Right. And now, out of the blue, there were these feelings for a former school mate, a former death Eater, a murderer, a convict. It was impossible, it was downright ridiculous. Severus was right, they had no future together. In fact, she had been asking herself for a while when Mr Trelawney would start wondering about the length of time she needed to learn about the convict's potions. They had been meeting for five months now and she expected his suspicious questions any day.

Mr Trelawney, however, had noticed that the convict appeared a little less grim and taciturn and felt glad for the man, although 701 still remained very much to himself. If teaching Madam Weaver about his potions served to brighten his life, the lessons could go on forever as far as Mr Trelawney was concerned.

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for the inspiring characters._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

In August Mr Trelawney's nephew came to stay for a couple of weeks. Simon O'Connor was the son of Mr Trelawney's sister who had married a Muggle engineer from Ireland. After leaving Hogwarts with many outstanding NEWTs the year before the handsome young wizard had started a promising career at the Ministry, where he worked as an equal opportunities commissioner in a department which had been newly created after the war in order to guarantee that Muggle-borns and half-bloods were not disadvantaged with jobs, payment and promotion. Simon was very efficient in his position, he soon became known for his high ambition and for his fierce hatred for everything connected with the pure-blood doctrine of Voldemort and his followers. When he learned that his uncle employed a prisoner who had been convicted for being a Death Eater, he immediately expressed his disagreement with the trust his uncle put in the man. According to Simon the conditions for 701 resembled holidays rather than punishment; convicts – and especially former Death Eaters - had to be treated much harder. It was complete folly to trust them and to believe in their obedience. They were experts in dissembling and would think nothing of murdering their owners in their sleep.

Mr Trelawney, however, remained adamant in that he wouldn't use unnecessary cruelty, an attitude which Simon definitely and vehemently disapproved of. He wanted to demonstrate to his uncle how wrong his positive opinion of the convict was and became obsessed with revealing an overt act of disobedience which would justify punishment. So Simon started following 701 surreptitiously, watching him closely, watching him even in his private quarters in the stables at night. After keeping watch for days and not finding anything but dutiful hard work during the day and some harmless potion making in the evenings, one night, when Simon once again was looking through the small window of the stables from the outside, he saw something that made his lips curl into a smile of grim satisfaction: The convict was reading a book by the small light of his wand. Suppressing a howl of triumph Simon stormed into the stables and overwhelmed the startled man. He pressed his wand to 701's temple.

"What do you think you're doing?" he shouted, snatching the book from the convict's grip. The man just stared at him in shock.

"Answer me!" Simon grabbed his prisoner's collar and shook him violently. Still 701 said nothing. Furiously Simon took hold of the convict's arms, turned them on his back and touched the wristbands with his wand. Now they were joined and the convict was bound. He pushed the helpless man onto his cot and with a violent flick of his wand conjured thick ropes that wound themselves tightly around his body, binding him to the cot and gagging him.

"Tomorrow I'll finally be able to prove to my uncle that his trust in scum like you was unjustified," Simon Trelawney hissed with a self-satisfied smile, collected the convict's wand and the book and left.

The convict was lying in the darkness, struggling for breath and trying to relax his limbs against the ropes. After a while his body adjusted to the situation, the pounding in his head relented. As he lay there, wide awake, listening to the noises of the horses, his mind was in overdrive. Had he expected his little bit of happiness to last forever? What a fool he had been! He should have been alarmed when he had noticed Simon watching him during the day, but his suspicions had been numbed by the kindness he had experienced in the Trelawney household so far. He had felt secure, had become too careless. These last months – for the first time in years he had felt really alive. The friendship he had been enjoying with Miranda – Merlin! Miranda – whatever they would do to him the following day he had to make sure that they wouldn't find out about her. He couldn't allow her to be punished for her sympathy. It was over, he wouldn't see her again. Mr Trelawney most probably would alert the Ministry first thing in the morning, he would be locked into a dark and lonely cell in Azkaban again and even if he was allowed to stay in Cornwall – Mr Trelawney would never renew his permission for the potions lessons. He felt the tears come to his eyes and did nothing to hold them back.

Simon returned early the next morning and removed the ropes, grabbed the convict's collar and forced him to his feet. 701 clenched his teeth, tried not to show his weakness, but after a cold night of being immobilized his limbs were numb and he crumbled to the floor.

"Get up!" Again he was pulled up violently by his collar.

"Move."

Dragged along by the merciless hand at his neck, fighting against the cramps and the pins and needles in his legs, the convict stumbled out of the stables and towards the house.

They went up the stairs into the hall and 701 felt the onset of pain. He was pushed into the library and forced onto his knees in front of Mr Trelawney's desk..

"Simon, what on earth…?"

"I found him with a book. I've always suspected that he wasn't the obedient servant you took him for and I was right!"

With a flourish Simon placed the book on the desk in front of his uncle.

Trelawney took it and read the title. "Edgar Allan Poe. It's Muggle fiction."

He looked at the convict whose face was pale and haggard and rigid with pain.

"Where did you get it from?" The prisoner could only shake his head, clenching his teeth in order not to scream with pain.

"Answer!" Simon shouted. Still 701 said nothing, his breathing was rapid and shallow, beads of sweat had appeared on his face.

"Crucio." Simon's face was contorted with hatred. The convict collapsed on the floor, writhing in agony and finally succumbing to screaming.

Mr Trelawney tried to intervene and stop his nephew's curse, but Simon was stronger and shook him off.

"Stop it! Stop it, for Merlin's sake!" A woman's voice cutting through the convict's screams.

Startled with surprise about the intrusion Simon lifted the curse and turned. Miranda Weaver was standing in the open door, her face deathly pale, her eyes flashing angrily.

"How can you do this to a human being?"

"He's only a convict and he has acted against the rules," Simon retorted defiantly.

"He's still a human. What has he done to deserve such punishment? Mr Trelawney?"

She went over to the older man, who had been watching his nephew's actions incredulously.

"He has been found in possession of a book," Mr Trelawney answered wearily.

Miranda bit her lip. Oh, no! Bloody Hell! This couldn't be true – they had found out. She took a deep breath.

"It was me. I gave them to him. I persuaded him to take them," she said quietly.

A desperate groan came from the convict.

"Them?" Mr Trelawney frowned. "Since when has this been going on?"

"Since I looked after his wound. It was my idea entirely. Don't punish him."

She looked at the shaking man on the carpet. He was panting, his eyes were closed, blood was running from his nose and he had wet himself.

"Don't make him stay in here, please, he's in pain," Miranda pleaded.

"He was disobedient. He must be punished. And you as well. You are not allowed to contact a convict," Simon interrupted furiously.

Mr Trelawney ran a hand over his face. "Healer Weaver, you may take 701 outside," he pointed to the French windows leading to the patio, "and we have to discuss this, Simon," he said to this nephew.

Miranda gently helped the convict to his feet and led him outside, where he collapsed and vomited heavily.

Mr Trelawney watched them for a moment, then stared at the stains on the carpet, wrinkling his nose in disgust about the smell.

"Simon, do something useful with that wand of yours and clean away this mess," he told his nephew with a hard voice.

"They deserve punishment, both of them," Simon demanded angrily, "the ministry should be informed, she should lose her license!."

"Simon, please clean the carpet."

With a furious jerk Simon pointed his wand at the dark spots on the carpet. "Scorgify," he muttered with a scowl, then turned to his uncle again.

"You must punish them. It's your duty as an owner."

"No!" Mr Trelawney stated firmly. "What they did was against the law, that's right. But your aunt needs a healer and she trusts Madam Weaver. I don't want to make her get used to a new person merely because Madam Weaver couldn't resist doing an act of pity. It was me who allowed them to meet in the first place. They share an interest in potions, it seemed harmless. Madam Weaver broke the rules out of sympathy for 701, not to harm us. Moreover, convict 701 has been a docile and reliable servant so far, there has never been an occasion for complaints, let alone punishment. I absolutely refuse to do anything drastic now, after such a minor offence."

"Minor offence!" Simon snorted. "Books can be dangerous. That's why convicts…"

"See reason, boy, it's a Muggle classic, no book about Dark Magic."

He sighed and looked out of the window, where the convict was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, the healer steadying him with one arm around his shoulders and gently wiping the blood and sweat from his face with a handkerchief. She also seemed to have used a cleaning spell on his clothes and the paving.

With another sigh Mr Trelawney turned to his nephew again and continued. "Don't worry, I'm going to punish them alright. I will programme his wristband so that he can't read without feeling pain and can't get into contact with her again. I think that's enough."

Simon obviously didn't think so, but could see from his uncle's expression that further arguing would be a waste of breath. So after staring out of the window angrily for a few minutes, he just nodded curtly and left the library.

Mr Trelawney went outside to inform the two culprits of his decision. They both accepted without a word. Miranda received her book and put it in her bag. Then she looked at the convict. He was exhausted, drained after all the pain, still suffering from light spasms and cramps.

"I'm so sorry," she said softly. He met her gaze and his mouth twitched into a sad little smile. Slowly she raised her hand and touched his cheek. Mr Trelawney could sense the emotions between the two people. Her eyes were glittering with tears when she finally rose without a word and disappeared into the house, on her way to her patient.

Mr Trelawney released the convict's hands and touched his red wristband with his wand to add the new commands. Then he helped the convict to his feet.

"You like each other, don't you?" Mr Trelawney said sadly.

701 just stared at him, then averted his eyes. Mr Trelawney sighed, never before had he seen such hopelessness.

"Go back to work, 701."

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for the inspiring characters_


	8. Chapter 8

_Thank you for all the reviews. Getting so much feedback is very encouraging. _

_Merry Christmas to you all._

**Chapter Eight**

They saw each other from afar sometimes, but did not speak again. When Mrs Trelawney died three months later, Miranda's visits stopped altogether. 701 returned to his monosyllabic ways and retreated behind his wall of isolation more than ever before.

Mr Trelawney could not get over the death of his wife. Although he had been living with the knowledge that it would come, there had always been some desperate hope that her condition would improve. Now she was gone for ever. He had spent the evenings at his wife's bedside, telling her about his day, talking about his plans - now he was at a loss what to do. Simon had returned to London soon after the incident with the convict, Laura and Fiona were away, one still at Hogwarts, the other one working as a trainee nurse at St Mungo's, there was no one for the widower to talk to. He had visitors, of course and received invitations from his neighbours – but most of the time he stayed at home on his own and went for solitary, restless walks in the grounds where one evening he met 701 who was sitting on a bench next to the pond. The convict got up when he saw his master approach, wanted to leave, but Mr Trelawney shook his head and, sitting down, patted the seat next to himself.

"Please, stay where you are, there is room enough for the two of us."

Reluctantly, 701 returned to his seat. The two men watched the goldfish in the pond in silence.

Finally Mr Trelawney said, "How are you, 701?"

The convict looked up and shrugged. "Fine, thank you, master."

A polite, conventional, automatic response without meaning.

Mr Trelawney regarded him thoughtfully, "Sometimes I wonder what you think of us. Do you hate us?"

The convict shook his head. "No, master, I don't hate you. Why should I? You treat me well."

"When I punished you for this book..."

"You had to, it was an offence against the convict law. I have been punished harder before."

The man's voice was flat. Mr Trelawney looked at his profile. There was resignation in every line of his face. Mr Trelawney sighed, he still did not feel comfortable in his role as a master, did not want to look at another man as his slave. He accepted to be addressed by the title, because he knew that omitting it would cause 701 severe pain, but he did not like it.

After another couple of minutes' silence he continued talking, more to himself than to the convict.

"The town council wants to buy the meadows down by the road for a new building development. They offer me a handsome sum of money, but can't decide what to do. The meadows are good and they have been in the possession of my family since the Domesday Book."

The convict said nothing. Had he listened at all?

"I could make good use of the money, of course, the roof of the house is in need of repair, however, I've always tried to keep the estate together for my daughters."

Finally 701 answered, "I'm sorry, master, I can't advice you in this matter without further information about the meadows and the building development. What do they want to build there? Houses? A shopping mall? An industrial estate?"

Mr Trelawney turned and looked at his convict with interest.

"I could give you the papers to read – sorry, I forgot," he added when he saw the pained look on the convict's face. "But I suppose I could bring the papers along and tell you all the details. I used to talk things over with my wife, but she's dead and I have no one. Will you listen to me?"

The convict met his master's eyes, his haggard face expressionless, however, Mr Trelawney thought he could detect a new sparkle of life in the black eyes of the man.

"Yes, master," he said softly.

From now on the two men met regularly on the bench or in the stables, Mr Trelawney talking about his problems and plans, the convict listening attentively, occasionally giving some advice. They also discussed the neighbourhood news and Mr Trelawney informed 701 about important issues from the wizarding world reported in the _Daily Prophet_.

Still the convict did not volunteer information about himself, a fact which Mr Trelawney had learned to accept. Often they just sat in companionable silence.

"You know," Mr Trelawney said one rainy day, when they had taken refuge in the stables, 701 applying some salve to several deep scratches on his right hand, "the Romans had a law that enabled citizens to set their slaves free. If I could do it I would release you from your bond. I don't know what crimes you committed, but to me you have proved loyal. You are a good man. I would rather see you as a friend than as a convict."

701's hands stopped in mid-action, he remained perfectly still for several minutes. Then he grimaced and turned his arm so that the Dark Mark became clearly visible.

"I'm not a good man and I'm sentenced to life, I deserve it and there is no way out."

He bandaged his hand carefully. Mr Trelawney watched him, pondering the convict's statement, wondering once again about his past.

"What is you real name?"

This came as a surprise. 701 nearly jumped at the question.

"I can't tell you, master."

There was something like panic in his voice.

"Why not?"

He lifted his arm again and pointed to the blue wristband. "Because of this. It prevents me from letting it slip accidentally. I can't pronounce it. And if somebody called me by my name I'd feel pain."

Mr Trelawney stared at him in horror. They really were thorough at the ministry!

"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm sorry for the barbarian actions of these righteous officials."

His voice was hoarse with suppressed fury. This was sick, this was torture! He realized that 701 was watching him with a sad smile.

"It's OK, you get used to it. It sounds cruel, but there are worse methods of torture," he said quietly, tentatively flexing the fingers of his bandaged hand.

"Madam Weaver knows who you are, doesn't she?"

701 nodded slowly. "Yes, from school. But…"

"It's alright, I won't ask her. I just thought it would be more natural to call you by your name."

He sighed and rose, putting a hand on the convict's shoulder. He felt the man stiffen under his grip, but left his hand in place.

"In spite of the circumstances I consider you a friend. Good night, 701."

The convict raised his head and their eyes met. Mr Trelawney suddenly felt uncomfortable under the other man's intense gaze, but forced himself not to look away. After a moment the convict nodded slightly and produced one of his rare smiles.

"Thank you, master," he said quietly.

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for the inspiring characters._


	9. Chapter 9

_A Happy New Year to all reviewers, thank you for the feedback._

**Chapter Ten**

Both Christmas and Boxing Day had been cold and wet, thick fog covering the land most of the time. Mr Trelawney had granted the convict two days off work on the Bank Holidays, so 701 had been at leisure to stay in his quarters and spend long hours experimenting on a new cough syrup, working carefully and methodically, casting warming spells from time to time to keep the cold and the damp at bay. Thus he managed to keep himself occupied for the better part of the holidays, but at 8 o'clock in the evening of Boxing Day everything was finished, the syrup neatly bottled, the ingredients and brewing utensils cleared away. There was nothing more to do, so 701 extinguished all the lights with the exception of one candle and lay down on his bed, trying to memorize every detail of the recipes; his thoughts, however, kept drifting away. Christmas – he kept telling himself that it was in no way different from the other days of the year and yet – it had always been the time when his loneliness and misery grew worse.

Mr Trelawney had his family and friends staying over Christmas, he wouldn't find his way into the stables and like so many evenings before the convict missed the books Miranda had provided him with, he missed Miranda… Violently he rubbed his head with his hands to drive her image away. His hair was very short, the ministry delegation had been there two days before Christmas for the regular inspection.

Another year over – how many still to go? They had told him that his health was excellent, there was no hope that death would end his captivity any time soon.

A confident knock on the door made him start and sit up. The door opened and in came Mr Trelawney, accompanied by a house-elf, both of them carrying large baskets.

"Merry Christmas, 701," Mr Trelawney called out, lit the lamps and motioned the house-elf to put the basket on the small table before dismissing him. The convict got to his feet.

"Merry Christmas to you, too," he answered automatically.

Mr Trelawney put down his basket on the floor, went over to the one on the table and produced from it a bottle of red wine, two glasses and a plate with a pile of sandwiches.

"The house-elves told me that you've hardly collected any food for two days."

The convict grimaced wryly. "I wasn't hungry."

"Nonsense. You must eat, that's why I brought something along. I hope you don't mind my coming here unannounced, but I'm alone tonight. Fiona had to go back to London because her shift starts early tomorrow morning, my brother and his family had to leave, too; Simon, Laura and that new boy-friend of hers have apparated to Penzance to see a Muggle movie. That's why I'm here – and to bring you your presents, of course."

Mr Trelawney smiled, the convict stared at him with an expression of disbelief.

"My presents?" he asked weakly.

"Oh yes, I asked the officials." Mr Trelawney laughed. "They were completely at a loss and hopelessly out of their depth, because their precious rules don't say anything about Christmas presents for convicts, therefore I deduced that you are allowed to have some."

Mr Trelawney bent down to his basket, took out a large parcel and handed it to the convict, who accepted it hesitantly. It was wrapped in simple red paper and soft to the touch. His face still a picture of disbelief he opened it and revealed a thick fisherman's sweater.

"The regulation clothes are not adequate in this cold weather; the officials say it doesn't matter as you are able to use warming spells if you are cold, but warming spells can be a nuisance if you have to do them all day long. I thought you could need something like this."

The convict smiled gratefully and pulled the sweater over his head. It fitted him well.

"Thank you, master. Uh - as a matter of fact I have something for you, too."

701 blushed a little.

"I hope you don't take it as a insult."

He went over to his shelf and fetched two small vials, one with a bright red, the other one with a dark blue liquid.

"It prevents hair loss. Yo must drink this," he held up the blue vial, "and massage this into your scalp, don't worry, the colour will vanish as soon as the potion gats into contact with your skin."

Laughing heartily Mr Trelawney accepted the vials. "So you have noticed that I'm getting balder, 701, you are very perceptive indeed. No, I don't feel insulted, I know you mean well and I thank you very much. Knowing your skills my hair will probably grow twice as thick as before."

"Thank you, master."

The convict turned to smooth the wrapping paper.

"Wait", Mr Trelawney paused, looking strangely uncomfortable, "I've got something else for you."

He put his hand into the pocket of his trousers and came out with a very small object wrapped in green and red paper already a bit crumbled and dirty at the edges.

"This is from - Madam Weaver. I met her at the Gringot's branch in Penzance the day before yesterday."

He turned the parcel in his hands.

"By the look of it she must have carried it with her for weeks, waiting for an opportunity of handing it over," Mr Trelawney said softly, before holding it out for the convict to take.

"Anyway, she sends her greetings and hopes you can use it."

701 did not meet Mr Trelawney's eyes when he finally reached for the parcel with a trembling hand, his lips clenched. His master watched him with a look of compassion on his face as he clutched the parcel to his chest, unable to react in any way.

"I believe she meant you to open it," Mr Trelawney said kindly.

"Oh – yes."

The parcel contained one of the small silver knives for cutting potion ingredients. Slowly the convict ran his finger along the shining, cool metal.

"It's very useful." He had to clear his throat. " Tell her I…" His voice broke, he turned and rested his head against the wall.

Mr Trelawney watched him for a moment.

"Do you need some time? Do you want me to go?"

"No", 701 turned to face his master, making an effort to gain control over his voice again, "it's alright. Tell her I like it very much and say thank you."

He took a deep shuddering breath and stowed the knife away with the other potion utensils on the shelf.

"Yes, 701, I will. And now let's have a nice glass of wine and some sandwiches. Christmas – a very special time of the year!"

"Yeah, peace on earth and goodwill to all men", came the sarcastic reply.

"So you don't believe in it?"

"It's a Christian festival, wizards and Christianity have never been getting along too well."

"It is about time we overcame these old animosities, don't you think so?"

701 shrugged and examined his fingernails thoughtfully.

"Yes, well, but even without them, I have never felt the existence of an omnipotent father caring for the world, caring for the people on earth, sacrificing his son so that human beings may live without having to make atonement for their sins. According to my experience men are left alone to fend for themselves, each one striving for power and influence and dominance over the others, and you have to pay for each and everyone of the mistakes you make, there is no reprief. "

Mr Trelawney raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Well, I'm not very devout myself, I must admit that I've never really thought about the meaning of Christmas, but Christmas is a time when you think of other people, your friends and your family."

"I'm sorry, master, I haven't got much experience with friends and family."

A simple statement pronounced in a neutral way – it made Mr Trelawney stare at his convict once again in amazement.

"Not even at Christmas?" he couldn't help asking.

"Not even at Christmas," the convict replied calmly.

"Well…" Mr Trelawney let out a deep breath and shrugged, "you know – in a way you're lucky."

Enjoying the surpise on the convict's face he began to explain.

"I like each and everyone of my family, and I appreciate very much that they want to console me after the loss of my wife, but unfortunately some of them don't get along with each other too well, so if they are together they hehave in a very stilted way in order not to go for each other's throats. This can result in embarrassing situations and can be very exhausting if you have to endure it for two days on end."

Laughing he poured two glasses of wine and handed one of them to the convict.

"So in a way I'm glad they are gone and I'm able to spend the evening with you.

Let's try the wine and the sandwiches. I intend to get comfortably drunk tonight."

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for the inspiring characters._

_Promise: There will be more action in the next chapter : )  
_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

The convict woke with a start. The horses. Something was wrong, the animals obviously were nervous. He rose with difficulty from his wine-enhanced sleep and stumbled over to the boxes with bare feet, yawning and rubbing his eyes. The horses were snorting and moving restlessly. He lit his wand and looked around for a strange animal in the stables, but could not see anything out of the ordinary. Then something outside the window caught his eye. The sky was red, which definitely was wrong because it could not yet be dawn. Quickly he went outside. Fire! The house was on fire! Suddenly sober and wide awake he hastened back to his corner. Hastily he put on his clothes and boots and ran towards the house. He could see the flames in the kitchen wing. If only he had his magic and a real wand! Extinguishing the fire would be no problem. But in his present state he was helpless. Panting he stood and watched. Suddenly he saw two small figures running towards him. The house elves.

"701!" they squeaked, "701, you must help master. Master is asleep and Miss Laura, and Master Simon and Miss Laura's friend, too!"

Help, yes, but how?

"Stay here," he commanded and sprinted towards the house. The kitchen door was useless, he would not get through the flames. So he tried the front door. It was locked and with his wand he was not able to open it. Cursing violently he ran back to the stables and fetched an axe. Back at the front door several blows with the axe made the wood splinter and destroyed the lock, allowing him to enter the house. There was no fire in the hall and on the stairs yet, but everything was full of thick smoke coming from the kitchen paasage. What now? 701 felt the pain coming and suddenly remembered the morning in the library. Strangely enough he had noticed a telephone then, the Trelawneys were connected to the Muggle phone network, he could call the fire brigade! He dashed into the library and dialled the emergency number.

"Fire at the Trelawney estate. Please hurry!" he shouted into the phone.

Then he returned to the hall. How long would it take them to get here? Too long for the unsuspecting people upstairs! The smoke was getting thicker. He coughed, gritted his teeth against the pain and looked around. The door next to the front door, was that a bathroom? He threw the door open. Yes, it was. He tore off his shirt and held it under the tap, then put the wet garment back on. Next he pulled down the towel, repeated the procedure and tied the wet cloth round his head and his mouth. Then he went back into the hall and ran upstairs. His eyes began to water from the smoke but at least the adrenaline in his veins made him forget the pain. Upstairs he tried the first door in the corridor. The room was full of smoke, the bed was empty. Out again and the next door. A bathroom! The next room was occupied, Laura Trelawney was in the bed – together with a young man. Wondering briefly what her father would say if he knew, he shook them, but only the man stirred and opened his eyes.

"What…?"

"The house is on fire, you must get out of here at once."

The young man sat up quickly. "Laura?"

"She's unconscious. Can you walk? Can you help me carry her?"

"Who are you?" The man squinted against the smoke.

"Does that matter now? Take the girl and get out of the house."

The young man muttered something under his breath, but finally managed to get out of the bed, scooped up the girl in his arms and, staggering under her weight, carried her from the room.

"Take her outside!" the convict shouted before running down the corridor to the next room. It was occupied, too. Simon O'Connor. For a moment 701 stared at the man who was responsible for the brutal end of his contact with Miranda – how tempting to leave him now - then slapped him in the face, hard, harder than would have been necessary to wake him, but the young man didn't react. He, too, was already unconscious. Cursing his bad luck 701 pulled him into a sitting position, slung him over his shoulder and carried him downstairs, carefully and slowly feeling his way in the thick smoke. Down in the hall he handed him over to Laura's boyfriend who was hovering on the doorstep.

In the moonlight the man saw the number on the shirt.

"You are the convict!" he cried in surprise.

"Yes, I am. So what?"

The young man suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Nothing. Can I help you?" he asked sheepishly.

"Stay with them and try to wake them," the convict shouted, already on his way back inside and upstairs and into the next room. This was the master bedroom, Mr Trelawney was as unconscious as his nephew. 701 had to steady himself at the bedpost. He felt dizzy. The pain, the smoke and the increasing heat made it hard to breathe. He bent down to pick up his master. But Mr Trelawney was much heavier than his nephew, it was impossible to carry him. All 701 could do was grab him under the arms and drag him from the room. Meanwhile the fire had reached the hall, the flames were encircling the banisters. The convict paused to gather some strength. Time was running out, he had to get outside as quickly as possible! Where was that blasted fire-brigade? Slowly and clumsily he started his descend, dragging his master with him non too gently. Mr Trelawney's body would be covered with bruises, but that could not be helped, they had to get out of the house. There were only three steps left when he stumbled with exhaustion and fell, pulling Mr Trelawney with him. The last thing he saw before he passed out were the small shapes of the house-elves and the larger one of Laura's friend just outside the front door.

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for the inspiring characters_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

The convict flinched when he saw who had come to collect him - Simon O'Connor of all people! - but he managed to keep his face impassive. He half expected to have his hands bound again, but Simon just nodded curtly and said, "Let's go."

Stiffly the injured man followed the young man's swift strides down the busy corridor. After three weeks in a Muggle hospital the burns on the back of his body were healing nicely, but still every movement hurt. The Muggles had wondered about his strange name and the wristbands which had survived the flames intact. In vain the doctors had tried to find an explanation for the cramps and spasms that had racked his body until the day his employer had visited him and then had ceased immediately. The Ministry had been alerted by the news of the fire and had sent an official to organize the convict's transfer to St. Mungo's, but the Muggle doctors had been quite firm in their diagnosis that the patient's condition was not stable enough for any kind of transport. So the wizards grudgingly had conceded that the treatment could be continued by the Muggles.

Simon O'Connor stopped and turned, waving his hands impatiently. The convict tried to move faster, but he still was weak and the pain in his legs was too strong. With the help of Laura's boyfriend the house-elves had managed to drag their master out of the house in time, but when they returned for the convict, his body had already been reached by the flames and only the arrival of the strong and competent men from the fire-brigade had saved his life.

Simon took the convict to a quiet spot in the car park and from there they apparated back to the Trelawney estate.

"My uncle is in London on business, so I have the authority over you and you must call me 'master'. Simon's voice was cold. "Extend your arm!"

701 obeyed. The bandages left the wristbands uncovered. Simon touched the red one with his wand.

"This renews most of your orders. They told us you can't work yet." Simon sounded as if he didn't agree with this. "You know the cottage down by the road which is rented to tourists during the summer? We are living there now while the house is being restored. The house-elves will prepare your food for you to fetch, but of course you are not allowed to enter the cottage without permission. You can go to your quarters now."

"Yes, master." Exhausted from the side-along apparition the convict turned and started shuffling towards the stables. It started to rain and the distance suddenly seemed endless. The kitchen wall loomed in front of him, blackened by the fire, the windows gone, the roof sagging. Weakness overcame him and he had to lean to the wall to keep himself from crumbling to the ground. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing.

"Sev?" A woman's voice, a voice he knew. He opened his eyes and looked up. A blue umbrella and red hair - Miranda! He expected the pain, but it did not come.

"They left that command de-activated," she said quietly as if she had been reading his thoughts. "You need medical care and I'm the only healer around. I know a nurse on your ward and she phoned me, informing me you had left this morning. How are you?"

He clenched his teeth. "Fine."

"Oh, yes, that's what it looks like," she scoffed kindly. "Let's get you out of the rain, then I'd like to have a look at your injuries." She took his arm and firmly led him to the stables, knowing perfectly well that he was too weak to muster resistance.

At the stable door they met Laura Trelawney, who had been grooming her horse. She gave the convict a quick, embarrassed look and left. Miranda sighed, but did not comment on the girl's behaviour.

"Sev, please undress and lie down on your stomach," she instructed her patient. He remained motionless, staring at her defiantly. Miranda let out an exasperated breath.

"Oh, Sev, please, if you find it embarrassing I'll turn my back until you have finished, OK?" Resolutely she turned on her heels and waited, looking at the horses in the box, listening to the rain on the roof.

First Severus was absolutely still behind her back, then she heard him clear his throat.

"Miranda, I can't do it alone." The words were barely audible.

She turned. He was standing there, looking furious with his helplessness.

"I'm too stiff, I can't move. Help me, please."

Knowing his pride she was aware of how much making this request must have cost him and swallowing very hard to hide the pity in her voice she said quietly, "I'm sorry, Sev. How thoughtless of me."

She went over to him and gently helped him remove his clothes, helped him lie down on his bed and finally cast a warming charm when she saw him shiver. Then she crouched next to him and slowly removed the bandages, doing her best not to cause him pain. Most of his back and large parts of his legs and his arms were covered with burns. She raised her wand and moved it slowly over the wrinkly red skin, smiling when she saw him relax. The Muggles had done a very good job, but there were some things that could be accomplished more effectively with magic. Already the skin looked smoother and paler. She put on her gloves and carefully applied a sweet-smelling salve to the injuries. Once again she moved her wand over his back and made the salve soak into the skin. "You won't need bandages any more, you can put your clothes on," she said and helped him get up. When he was dressed she sat down next to him.

"I'm going to give you a healing and a strengthening potion."

He grimaced and she added with an ironic grin, " you're a hero now, you can't afford being weak."

"I'm not a hero."

"Yes, you are. Haven't you seen the newspapers? The local Muggle one and the _Daily_ _Prophet_ were full of your bravery. It was even in the news on TV."

He snorted derisively. "My bravery! Have you seen the way she looked at me? As if she would rather have died than be rescued by a convict. And he would gladly punish me for, oh, I don't know, having touched members of the family, having entered the house without permission…"

"Who?"

"Laura Trelawney and her cousin."

Miranda was taken aback. What had happened to his façade of self-control and irony? Had it been melted away by the flames?

"Oh, I see."

She would never have thought that he would take it so seriously.

She took his hand. "Sev, you must understand, perhaps they are…"

"I'm only a convict, I know. A slave, a number without an identity and without feelings," he said bitterly. "I have no right to expect gratitude and my longing for a simple "thank you" is pathetic."

"Sev…"

Suddenly he took hold of her hand and pressed it to his cheek as if in desperate need of a human touch. His eyes were closed, his face full of pain.

"Sev…"

Instinctively Miranda moved closer to him, would have hugged and comforted him, but

he released her hand abruptly and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"I don't need your pity," he barked, staring at her hard. "Leave me alone."

For a moment she looked into his eyes full of bitterness, blinking back the tears that started to come to hers, then she turned her attention to her bag and took out two small vials. She laid them on the cot.

"The potions, Sev, don't forget to take them. I'll be back tomorrow."

She managed to sound cool and professional, and with a last look at his rigid form and clenched fists she left.

At her second visit Miranda was accompanied by Simon Trelawney, who still was reluctant to grant the convict his sick leave and wanted to see the state of his health with his own eyes. Surely the man was able to do some of his lighter jobs and did not have to be idle all day?

Barely able to bite back her anger Miranda invited him to have a closer look at the convict's back, which still looked far from well. Simon's face turned very white when he saw the red, wrinkly skin on the convict's body, he grimaced, nodded curtly, turned and left without another word.

"Bloody bastard!" Miranda hissed as soon as they were alone. Severus grunted an affirmative, but otherwise he kept his emotions under control. They didn't speak much at all, hardly more than the few words that were necessary to check on his healing progress and to apply the salve. Miranda handed him two more potion vials and left.

Two days later she arrived with Simon O'Connor again. Her patient was able to get out of his clothes alone by now and when she examined his back, she was glad to see that its condition had improved considerably. Simon stood next to her and studied the convict's body critically.

"This looks as if he didn't need a healer any longer," he said at last.

Miranda took her time making the salve soak into the skin with her wand before answering.

"Yes, you're right. The rest will heal by itself."

"Fine, than he can start work tomorrow and help with the rebuilding of the house."

The healer wanted to shout at the young man, wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him, wanted to slap him in the face, but instead she closed her eyes for a moment and silently counted to ten. When she answered there was steel in her voice.

"No, he can't. He still needs at least a week to recover completely. And even then he won't be able to do hard manual work. He was near death, for Merlin's sake, give him some time. That's the least you can do for him after all he has done for you – as far as I am informed he saved your life."

Despite her efforts to remain calm, her voice had become louder and more agitated with every sentence.

The young man rolled his eyes and snorted, then, after staring at her with a look of utter dislike, he shrugged.

"Very well. Let's wait till the return of my uncle then."

He didn't leave, though, as Miranda had hoped he would, but stood with his arms crossed, watching them grimly.

Miranda pulled off her gloves and threw them into the bin. Then she busied herself with the contents of her bag while the convict put on his clothes. Afterwards she went up to him and extended her hand.

"Farewell, S - 701."

He took her hand in both of his. "Thank you."

Thus they stood for a some long seconds, looking at each other. An impatient cough from Simon finally made them speak at the same time.

"I must go…"

"Go now."

She just nodded, turned and left.

Simon O'Connor stepped up to the convict.

"There's no need for further treatment, so there's no need for you to see her again. Your arm!" And with a malicious smile he pointed his wand at the wristband. Then he also left.

701 sat down on the bed, covering his face with his hands and remained in this position for a very long time, without moving, without making a sound, only the small twists of his shoulders revealing the fact that he was crying, silent, bitter tears of despair.

Later he lifted his head, staring at the wall in front of him with unseeing eyes. Finally he got up awkwardly and went into the bathroom. He splashed cold water into his face before looking at himself in the small mirror.

"Idiot!" he whispered at his image. "Fool! Stop being sentimental. Get a grip! Pull yourself together!"

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for the inspiring characters_


	12. Chapter 12

_Once again I'd like to say thank you to all the nice people who encourage me with their reviews. The story is nearing its end, there are two more chapters planned._

Chapter Twelve 

Four days later Mr Trelawney returned, accompanied by a Ministry official. Simon and Laura were asked to join the two men in the living-rom and the four of them remained there for the better part of two hours, during which the noises of a heated discussion could be heard through the locked door.

Then a house-elf was asked to fetch the convict. He found him sitting on his favourite bench next to the pond, staring at the water.

"Master wants to see you, 701," the small creature said. "Master is waiting for you in the cottage." The house-elf smiled eagerly and ran back to the house. The convict got up and followed slowly. He didn't feel like smiling. Had they decided that his time of convalescence was over and that his command to work had to be re-activated? Most probably and – as far as 701 was concerned - about time. He felt better and would be glad to have some work for keeping himself busy instead of having too much time for brooding thoughts.

Mr Trelawney was standing outside the front door, waiting for him, beaming at him and greeting him with a warm handshake. He touched the wristband with his wand.

"Now you can come in, 701," he said and led the way.

They entered the living-room. The convict stiffened and hesitated briefly when he noticed the group of people assembled there. A stranger? The man had 'ministry official' written all over his face! Suddenly 701 felt very cold. What did they plan to do with him? Send him to different place? Send him back to Azkaban? The floor of the room seemed to move like the deck of a ship in a storm and the convict had to use all his strength to stay upright.

Mr Trelawney sat down in an armchair near the fire-place, Simon was sulking in a corner and Laura was fidgeting on the edge of her chair. The ministry official cleared his throat and sifted through a pile of parchments on the desk in front of him. The clock on the mantle-piece was ticking.

Finally the official spoke:

"Convict 701, your owner, Mr Theodore Trelawney of Trelawney Hall, has contacted the ministry and has applied for a pardon because of the extraordinary courage and loyalty you showed when you saved the lives of your master, his family and his guest."

He paused. Everybody was watching the convict expectantly, but the man only glanced at his master briefly with sad eyes and then went back to studying the carpet in front of his feet. The official continued.

"Given the fact that there have always remained some doubts at your trial, the ministry has, after careful consideration, decided to grant the pardon."

The convict's head shot up, he stared at the official incredulously.

"So it is my duty to inform you that from now on you are welcomed back into the wizarding society of Great Britain."

The official got up and approached the convict. He touched the wristbands with his wand, first the red one, then the blue one; they started to glow and vanished, exposing pale stripes of skin. 701 staggered, his face became deathly pale, his breath came in ragged gasps, he would have collapsed if the official had not caught him in time.

"Don't worry, it's just his full magic coming back," the official said to the room at large and led the man to a chair. "This reaction is extremely interesting, I've never had the opportunity of watching the reverse process myself."

When the convict's breathing had returned to normal at last, the official unbuttoned the top of 701's shirt and pointed his wand at the number on his chest, which then started to fade and after a few seconds vanished completely. The same happened with the numbers on his clothes.

"Severus Snape, from now on you are allowed to use your name again. You are entitled to a new wand, your apparition license has been renewed and your money and effects the ministry confiscated will be restored to you, although, I must admit, there is not very much left after all these years."

He handed Severus a key.

"Snape?" Simon's voice cracked with fury. "You've pardoned Snape? You've pardoned Dumbledore's murderer?"

He had come out of his corner and stood in front of the official threateningly.

The official remained unimpressed. "Well, as I said, there has always been some doubt about his intentions…"

"Doubt? There were witnesses!"  
"Simon!" Mr Trelawney's deep voice was resolute. "Whatever crimes he committed, he paid for them by serving ten years as a convict. He saved our lives, that's what counts now."

Simon turned on his heels and stared out of the window, his back radiating livid disagreement.

The official handed Severus several roles of parchment.

"Well, Mr Snape, you are free to go now."

Severus collected the papers and looked around the room. Simon did not change his position in front of the window, Laura examined her fingernails. Only Mr Trelawney beamed at him and extended his hand. Severus took it.

"Thank you, ma – Mr Trelawney," he said hoarsely.

"We have to thank you, Mr Snape," Mr Trelawney replied. "Without you…" He shook his head. "What are you going to do now?"

The former convict hesitated.

"I don't know. I never expected to be free again. I – I think I must get used to the idea."

The official stacked some papers into a neat file and put them into his briefcase, which he then put shut with a sharp click.

Severus rubbed his wrists, staring at the room with unseeing eyes. He felt empty, as if all his emotions and thoughts had vanished together with the wristbands. He had no strength left, no will to go anywhere.

"She lives in the village, next to the village green." Mr Trelawney whispered, his eyes twinkling.

Severus started and after a moment of surprise he managed a feeble attempt to smile. "Thank you. I'll pack my things and leave."

"There is no need to hurry, Mr Snape. You are welcome to stay here if you want to – as a guest."

Severus looked in the direction of Simon O'Connor and shook his head.

"No, I think I'll better go."

"What a pity, so I'm losing a friend. I enjoyed our talks very much. Wherever you go, I hope you will stay in contact. Do send an owl if you have settled down, will you?"  
Severus nodded thoughtfully. "I also enjoyed your company, Mr Trelawney. But I'll better find a place where people don't know about the Death Eater and the convict."

Mr Trelawney sighed. "Yes, I can understand you. Fare well then, and good luck."

"Thank you. Good-bye."

After a last handshake Severus left the cottage.

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for the inspiring characters._


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Miranda walked across the village green towards her house. It was late, the sun was sinking fast and she was tired, having just apparated back from St. Ives, where she had first been assisting a young witch giving birth to triplets and afterwards treating the nervous breakdown of the babies' father. She thought she could see someone sitting on the bench next to her front door and she squinted against the sun to see who it was. Oh, Merlin, please don't let it be another patient! When she finally was close enough to recognize the face she did not believe what her eyes told her. Severus! He could not be here, he was not able to leave the estate. And yet it was him! He had spotted her, too, and got up. She ran the last steps and stood panting before him. Automatically she looked at his wrists. The bands were gone.

"Sev! You're here!" she exclaimed without thinking.

His mouth twitched into an ironic smile. "Obviously."

She grimaced. Bastard!

There was an uncomfortable pause, they just glared at each other, neither of them knowing how to go on.

"I'm sorry, Miranda, that was uncalled for," Severus finally said softly, "but I - they pardoned me. I'm free." He did not sound enthusiastic.

Miranda gave him a thoughtful look. Only now did she notice the canvas bag on the bench behind him.

"Better come inside," she said and opened the front door. In the hall she put her bag down and turned towards him. He stared at the floor, his shoulders hunched, his bag dangling from his hand. He looked lost and confused. Gently she touched his arm.

"Sev…" No, she could use his full name now, the one he preferred. "Severus, are you alright?"

He looked at her, his face twitching as if he could not decide between laughing and crying.

"I don't know."

"Severus, it's good news, isn't it?"

He shrugged.

"Yes, I suppose it is."

"You do not seem to be convinced of the fact," she said dryly.

He clenched his fists and shouted desperately, "What am I to do now? I was resigned to spending the rest of my life in captivity. I don't know where to go…"

"You came here and you can stay here for a while."

"I don't want your pity!"  
She sighed. His favourite phrase. Why did this man have to be so stubborn?

"I know"," she stated calmy, "but you're a friend of mine and friends are always welcome."

She went closer and now at last found the courage to put her arms around him, resting her head on his chest. He became rigid and Miranda half expected to be pushed away, but then he answered her embrace and held her close. It was like that day at the lake. She could draw comfort from his presence and she wanted to comfort him. And there was something else, some feeling she didn't quite dare put a name to. She could feel his heart beating rapidly, his chest moving with his quick breathing. She looked up and met his eyes. They glittered strangely. And then his tentative lips came closer, found hers and he kissed her, shyly and self-consciously at first, but when he felt her respond, he couldn't restrain himself any longer, the kiss bcame hard and hungry, desperate, passionate, a kind of kiss Miranda had never experienced before. When they finally had to pause for breath she whispered, "We are free to follow that road then, aren't we?" He frowned, was puzzled – then smiled understandingly and nodded.

"Come."

She took his hand and led him to her bedroom. Quickly they got rid of their clothes and were in each other's arms again, eager to feel skin on skin. Miranda was careful not to hurt his still sensitive back, but apart from that their love-making wasn't gentle. They had waited so long, they were in desperate need of each other. Miranda could feel his erection and her own body was screaming for fulfilment. She arched towards him, begging him to enter her. He did so and after a few violent thrusts he moaned and collapsed on top of her.

For a while they remained lying there in close embrace, panting, their bodies hot.

"Sorry," he whispered, "it's been a long time…"

"There is no reason to apologize," she said quietly, "we both needed that, I as well as you."

She shifted to get into more comfortable a position and brushed his now unblemished chest with her lips.

He turned and propped himself on his elbow, watching her with so much love and gentleness in his eyes that Miranda almost swooned with happiness.

"Do you understand how it happens?" he asked her softly.

"How what happens?"

"That you love somebody. Suddenly it was there, for the first time in my life. It seemed so hopeless…" he shook his head with a helpless smile.

She hugged him closer. "Yes, it seemed hopeless, but now everything has changed."

"I'm an ex-convict, whose name will always be a synonym for murderer and traitor. I have no money, no job, no home, not even a decent set of clothes to my back," he replied bitterly.

"I love you," she simply said.

He looked at her for a very long time, his expression unreadable. Suddenly a tear started to run down his cheek and he wiped it away angrily with the back of his hand.

"What a fool I am," he said.

"Yes, but I love you anyway," she answered with an affectionate grin.

For an answer he kissed her again, slowly and gently this time, exploring every corner of her mouth with his tongue. Then his fingers traced the outlines of her breasts, continued down to her navel, rested there, circled it and went further down to the warm dampness between her legs, playing an intricate tattoo with his fingers. Miranda felt the longing return and moaned.

"We could try again and do it more thoroughly this time," he whispered, his tongue teasing her nipple.

Miranda sighed with pleasure. "Oh, yes, Severus, please. Slowly and thoroughly and again and again. We have all night."

He laughed softly. "I must inform you, Madam Weaver, that I'm still on sick leave, I'm not a well man; however, I feel honoured by your trust and I'll do my very best."

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for the inspiring characters_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

The village fete was in full swing. The vicar watched the scene before him with a proud smile. Everything was perfect, even the weather was fine: sunny, but not too hot. People were queuing for refreshments, the jumble-sale stall was busy, as were those selling home-made jams and home-knitted jumpers and socks. Most tickets for the raffle had already been sold. It was perfect. Beaming with pleasure the vicar turned to his companions, Sir William Brent and his guest from Cornwall. "I hope, you'll stay for the concert this evening. The choir has made a tremendous effort and has become very good. There's also a small orchestra. They would feel honoured by your presence." Sir William cast an enquiring look at his guest, who smiled and nodded. "Yes, why not, I like music, let's stay." The three men continued their stroll around the village green, nodding greetings right and left as they went, shaking hands.

Suddenly the vicar's eyes fell on the tall man at the bouncy castle. As always, he was dressed in black and was crouching next to a small red-haired boy, comforting him and wiping the tears from his face: Mr Weaver, certainly one of the most interesting characters in the village. He had to introduce him to Sir William.

The vicar liked Severus Weaver, enjoyed talking to him. The man was a scholar, a declared atheist, but well-read in theology, with a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue. The two men had been meeting regularly in the vicar's study for heated discussions over a bottle of good red wine ever since they had become acquainted in the course of Martin Bell's illness.

The Weavers had moved to the village two years ago, they had bought an old derelict farmhouse and had restored it expertly. Mr Weaver was a pharmacist and an accomplished gardener, his wife a non-medical practitioner. At first the family had kept very much to themselves; they came from London – or that was what everybody deduced from the little information the Weavers volunteered – and there was agreement among the villagers that they were different somehow, but they were friendly and helpful, and ever since Miranda Weaver had managed to cure little Martin Bell's painful eczema with her treatment and the salves made by her husband, the village community had taken them into their hearts.

The two red-haired children, a boy and a girl, attended the village school and the doctor now often sent his hopeless cases to Miranda.

"Severus!" the vicar shouted, walking towards the bouncy castle, his hand outstretched for a hearty handshake, "do you know Sir William?" The man with the long grey hair kept in a ponytail – another fact that had caused a few raised eyebrows among the villagers - smiled at the vicar and looked in the direction of the vicar's sweeping left arm. His face became rigid and drained of all colour: He had never met Sir William, but he certainly knew the man walking next to him, Mr Theodore Trelawney from Cornwall.

The vicar was too busy addressing Sir William to notice this reaction.

The introductions were made and Mr Trelawney kept the eye-contact with Severus a bit longer than usual, but didn't say anything. After the first polite remarks the guest from Cornwall directed the conversation towards gardening, addressing himself mainly to his new acquaintance until the two men finally were standing apart from the others.

"So the two of you are still together and married. You're a lucky man, Mr Sn… Weaver," Mr Trelawney said quietly. Severus nodded nervously. He still had not got over the initial shock of recognition.

"You didn't write," Mr Trelawney went on.

Severus raised his hands in an apologetic way. "Somehow I never got round doing it, I had to build a new life from scratch."

Mr Trelawney smiled. "You don't have to apologize. I'm glad you succeeded."

Severus relaxed a bit.

"How long have you been living here?"

"For two years. First we went to London, Miranda could go back to her old job at St Mungo's and I – well…," he sighed and grimaced wearily, "I tried to come to terms with freedom, which took some time. Without Miranda's incredible patience and support I wouldn't have been able to do it."

"Where's your wife?"

"In the tea-tent. One of the helpers became ill and Miranda is standing in for her."

"This area doesn't have a wizarding community, do you live as Muggles?"

Severus laughed softly and shook his head. "No, not really. We just keep our contact with the wizarding world to the absolute minimum. Business affairs only. We try to hide the fact that we use magic. Miranda still works as a healer, some wizards come from London to see her, I make potions and sell them to St. Mungo's and other wizarding hospitals as well as to the local chemist's. But for the people here we are ordinary Muggles. We use computers and even have a car."

With an ironic grin he continued. "We may seem a bit strange in their eyes, but they put that down to the fact that we come from London. Even my friend, the vicar, hasn't got a clue or he would probably burn me at the stake rather than share his best wine with me."

Mr Trelawney laughed heartily. Severus took a deep breath to calm down his still fast-beating heart.

"What about the children?" Mr Trelawney smiled at the kids who had climbed out of the bouncy castle to see who their father was talking to.

"They have magic, but they don't know it yet. They go to the village school, it will be some years until their Hogwarts letters arrive."

They started walking towards the tea-tent in silence. Suddenly Severus stopped and looked at Mr Trelawney. "Does Sir William know you are a wizard?"

"Oh, no, he doesn't. We do business together from time to time, that's all."

Severus breathed out slowly. "Good, so he won't suspect anything."

Mr Trelawney put his hand on Snape's arm. "No, he won't and you can count on me for not telling anybody. I'm glad you've managed to settle down and I'm glad that now I know where to find you. I really did enjoy our talks, you know."

The little red-haired girl tucked at her father's sleeve. "Who is this man, Daddy?"

Severus cast a look at Mr Trelawney and smiled. "This is Mr Trelawney, Lily. He's…"

"An old friend," Mr Trelawney continued, "without me your parents would never have met. Now let's go and find your Mum."

Miranda pushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead with her arm und cast a look towards the entrance of the tea-tent and the endless queue of hungry and thirsty villagers. During the last hour she had come to regret her decision to help, her legs and her back were aching and her t-shirt was clinging to her back with sweat. A new group of people arrived at the back of the queue – oh, well, so her family was hungry, too – and Miranda nearly dropped the full tea-cup she was holding in her hand. Mr Trelawney! What on earth was he doing here, together with Severus? Hastily she handed the cup to her customer, excused herself and squeezed her body through the gap between the two trestle tables.

"Madam Weaver! How nice to meet you!" Mr Trelawney's face was full of pleasure when he took her hand and shook it enthusiastically, causing many curious faces to turn in their direction. Miranda smiled shyly and looked at her husband for help.

"He's a friend of Sir William's. He's staying with him," Severus explained the situation.

"Mummy, can we have chocolate cake?" Lily's impatient demand cut through an embarrassed silence.

Miranda nodded and patted their children's heads absent-mindedly. Making use of her privileges as a helper she jumped the queue in front of the cake table and bought two pieces of chocolate cake. Her thoughts were elsewhere. For years she had been harassing Severus with her pleas to keep his promise and write to Mr Trelawney, and for years Severus had found excuses for procrastinating. His experiences with the Death Eaters and the time of his captivity had left him extremely vulnerable to nightmares and panic attacks. He fought them, tried to overcome them by sheer force of will, but every now and then there were nights when he woke suddenly, disoriented, drenched in sweat, screaming with terror or whimpering with the pain he had just been reliving and only Miranda's patient presence could soothe him. Or days when some unexpected words, images, sounds or smells caused suppressed memories and sensations to re-surface which left him helpless, shaking, unable to think clearly or work. He desperately wanted to close these dismal chapters of his life and start a new one. Therefore they had left London and its wizarding institutions. In this village, with as few wizarding contacts as possible, he had succeeded so far, but now the tentacles of the past had got hold of him once again in the person of Mr Trelawney.

She handed a piece of cake to each child and watched her husband anxiously for signs of stress and panic. But he seemed perfectly at ease in Mr Trelawney's presence.

"I could do with a cup of tea," Severus said. "Do you have time for one?"

Miranda looked around. The other women were already casting impatient looks in her direction and the influx of visitors had not abated. She sighed.

"Oh, Severus, I don't think this would be a good idea right now. You have to do without me. Sorry, Mr Trelawney."

"Don't worry, Madam Weaver, I can't stay long anyway. Actually, I should be going back to Sir William, he's probably wondering about my whereabouts already."

"What are your plans? How long are you going to stay in the area?"

"Till tomorrow."

"Why don't you come and…" Miranda gave her husband a sidelong glance, "why don't you come and visit us for lunch tomorrow. Then we'll have time to talk."

She held her breath, waiting for Severus' reaction.

To her surprise he joined in with her invitation without hesitation.

Mr Trelawney accepted gladly and left the tent together with Severus and the children.

With a deep sigh of relief Miranda went back to her duties. She was handing out teacups and change on autopilot, her mind was busy evaluating the unexpected turn this day had taken. But they had mastered the situation, Severus had mastered the situation – and hopefully another step for him back to a normal life had been accomplished.

After they had settled their children for the night, Severus joined Miranda on the sofa in the living-room for a cup of coffee before bedtime. Miranda rested her head against the back of the sofa, her eyes closed. She was so tired, more tired than after a full day of normal work. Placing the coffee cups on the table, Severus sat down next to her, gently putting his arm around her shoulders. She shifted a little, snuggling closer to him.

They remained in this position, perfectly still, enjoying each other's presence, listening to each other's breathing and the occasional noises of the children upstairs.

"Have I ever thanked you?" Severus suddenly said softly.

Miranda tilted her head upwards and looked at him. "What for?"

"For your staying with me, for your patience, your never-ending support, your optimism."

Miranda just shrugged a little and settled even closer to him. She was too exhausted to think of anything appropriate to say.

Severus continued to speak, more to himself than to her.

"When I talked to Mr Trelawney this afternoon he called me a lucky man and I suddenly realized how much you have done for me during the last years and how much I have taken it for granted."

At last Miranda sat up and put her arms around his neck. Their eyes met. She smiled.

"Severus, it's all very simple. I love you."

And she kissed him, making him respond passionately, until they both forgot time and space in their being together. The coffee on the table remained untouched.

The end

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for the inspiring characters_


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